


Mirrors and Fevers

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [93]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Dom/sub, F/M, Masochism, Other, PWP without Porn, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:59:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8034091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: Knowing him, he wants to be punished.





	Mirrors and Fevers

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: Dom!Clara/12 bloodplay

He heals quick, is the thing. The Doctor, whether due to Gallifreyan biology or Time Lord technology or something specifically him - the Doctor will bruise and scrape open easy as anyone who only knows the dictionary definition of a callous, but it always gets brushed aside.

This has not escaped Clara’s notice.

A captive situation, some jail cell somewhere - they’d done something apparently illegal - she adjusts the heavy iron collar around her neck, the shackles around her wrists and ankles, and half-watches him fidget as she’s trying to come up with an escape plan. How the flush-red-to-blue-black marks bloom on his pale skin. He fidgets, they think. They get out alive. The marks are gone by the time they step back through the TARDIS doors.

She thinks about that for a while. 

 

* * *

He’s always willing and he always falls back, always loose and compliant under her. She grabs the opportunity: her hands wrapped tight around his wrists, his arms pulled over his head; her fingerprints left behind, his whimpers as she pulls away and the marks fade. And the look he gives her, like he enjoys it. The hip-thrust as she squeezes, fingernails dug into his skin. The pink half-moons along his side, the scratches over his chest. Welts raising and vanishing.

Knowing him, he wants to be punished. The self-flagellating ego. The hereness, nowness, of physical pain. The brief moment of being visibly, physically hurt. A comeuppance. She pulls his hair as she kisses him, harder and harder until he’s coming. Before her, but for whatever reason best left unexamined just the fact that she did that to him is enough to push her over the edge, with the help of his hand shaky and fumbling on her clit.

She takes care of him, in that moment between realizing what she’s done and his genetic-technical-mystical whatever whisking the bruises away. She holds him, cradles him. Deep breaths, and avoiding the central question of what this makes her.

(And he’s right as rain, a few scant moments later. Like nothing had happened.)

 

* * *

A captive situation, some evil mastermind’s back room. Slipshod ropes tying them both to a pillar. Clara gets herself out - small hands, better at knots - and lets the Doctor squirm for a bit, before undoing his ties as well. The flash of dented red lines around his wrists, disappearing under his cuffs.

“We’re running, now,” he reminds her, sonic-ing the door open and leaving her to follow. 

She remembers this moment. Carries it with her, secretive and dirty-bad-wrong, all the way up to the point where she waltzes into a sex shop and pretends to be browsing the novelty penis-shaped pasta for five minutes before ambling back towards the - the other stuff. Handcuffs and collars and whips and rope. Black leather and chromed metal. She chooses carefully: something to hold him down, something to make it hurt.

She wants him to hurt.

The woman manning the till gives her a knowing look as she rings her up.

 

* * *

“That’s an awful lot of accoutrements,” the Doctor says. He’s eyeing up her pile of recent purchases.

She’s picking out the first move. Leather cuffs - he holds his arms out, wrists bared - she fixes them around his skinny arms, ratcheting the buckle tight. “If that’s alright.”

“It is, yeah,” he says. Quick and choked and a yearning, hungry look in his eyes.

The safeword is ‘Daleks’. She threads the ropes through the rings and yanks hard, led back and down to the mattress. Ropes through the spaces in the headboard. Ankles tied to the posts at the foot of the bed.

His cock straining the fabric of his trousers, his eyes wide-open and watery. Something coming lose inside her. She readies the whip, and strikes.

 

* * *

Clara wants more and the Doctor will take anything you throw at him and that’s their story, in a nutshell. She watches the bruises fade from his wrists and wonder how much he can handle. How much he wants.

They don’t talk much, or at least about this. ‘This’ meaning sex in general, let alone the specific subsection of sex that involves her testing how hard she can hit him before he taps out, how long the marks last. But she feels like she should at least nod towards a conversation, as far as this is concerned.

She sets herself up, possibly overmuch, bandages and alcohol and sterilized scalpels, before even approaching it. And then - how do you phrase this? It’s not a question she’s ever asked. Not something about herself she’s ever confronted. Or noticed, really. He had a knack of bringing the worst of her out. Or, not ‘worst’. The least sensible, anyway. An instinctive, rushed, and in the specific domain of their bedroom, cunt-forward approach.

“You can,” he starts, voice hoarse. “You can hurt me. If you want.”

She’s having second thoughts.

“You can - whatever you want,” he says.

“Please,” he says. Voice cracking.

Right. Okay. She undresses him - layer after layer, a Russian doll towards the small creature at the core. Boots off, trousers off, pants flicked towards the corner of the room. His assortment of shirts peeled off until there’s only him left, soft and scrawny and flushed pink. She pushes him down to the mattress. Cuffs on and the rope through and he’s held close, tight, the bruises starting. He swallows and twitches as she ties him down spreadeagle.

So here they are, then. Him waiting, her anticipating. The knife in her hand. Does she shake? Maybe, just a bit, hovering over his chest, before she breathes in and out and lets the blade rest against his skin. Dragging down, the blood welling up behind it.

He’s making noises.

“Alright?” she asks.

He nods, shifts. His cock hard and ignored between them. The cuts healing already, and she’s bringing the knife back down. Tracing the slight curve of his belly, over his hips, down to his inner thigh. She brushes a thumb over the line she’s made, tastes the bitter-copper blood, thumb in her mouth and her eyes on his, the look he’s giving her.

“You like this,” she says, idly shaving off a few hairs on his leg. Just checking. The blade is sharp, for sure.

“Yeah, yeah I do. Please, just.” He scrunches his eyes shut.

“What?” She scrapes the blade back up, lays it flat by his nipple.

He squirms, hips lifting off the mattress. She pulls back, but still nicks him. Blood coming even as the last wounds seal up.

“Do it,” he mouths. Syllables lost, the sound of it gone, but he gasps and shudders beneath her, moans as she lets the blade pierce his skin again. A line down the middle of his ribcage.

She shouldn’t like this. Not the act, not the face he’s making. Shouldn’t be this turned on by his moaning, mewling, gasping noises. She shouldn’t enjoy this, watching his skin buzz and glow and heal right behind the trail of the wound. But she does. She does like it.

He’s crying, maybe, or crying out at least, tense against the restraints. _Please,_ he’s saying.

She does, she always will. One hand between her legs and the other steady on the knife. She always will. A red line drawn down his chest, the red and copper and her lips against his skin.

“Yeah,” she says, wiping her mouth, leaning back to look at him. “I will. If you want.”

He nods. She brushes her hand against his fresh scars, gently, before bringing the knife down again.


End file.
